I was a 19-year-old soldier on a three day pass the night two older women smothered me with warm affection, kept the beer flowing, told wild stories of their youth and Irish jokes that made me laugh so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
I’d stopped at their apartment just to say hello on my way to meet an older army buddy, Johnny Hall, all of 25, at Oliver’s Lounge in Buffalo. Johnny said the blind date he’d lined up for me “could be Lana Turner’s sister; so don’t be late, Spitz.” John had wheels. I rode the bus.
But the fawning women were so much fun I forgot the time, and it was midnight when I bade a reluctant farewell and thumbed a ride to my parents’ home in Kenmore.
A Cadillac with an older woman at the wheel pulled to the curb. “Hop in, soldier,” she smiled sweetly. Imagine, a second adventure with an older woman before the night was done.
I began to turn over in my mind the story I would tell Johnny when he groused about my not showing up to meet the image of Lana Turner, although handsome Johnny had been known to squire two ladies on more than one occasion.
But I was embarrassed to tell this man of the world that I’d spent the entire evening with my much older unmarried cousin, Theresa Rogers, and her aging mother, Agnes, looking at snap shots of their youth and listening to endless stories of Frank, Theresa’s older brother, a champion swimmer whose trophies adorned every wall. He died before I was born from wounds suffered in France during World War I.
The woman who picked me up, Mrs. Richardson, whose yacht company had converted to defense contracts, graciously drove out of her way to drop me at the door of my home.
Johnny would not be pleased that I didn’t show up.
So when he came by the house the next day, I was ready. I didn’t lie, actually, but failed to identify the charming older women who’d held me captive with beer, jokes and abundant hugs and kisses, or fill in details of getting “picked up” by a gorgeous older woman in a Caddy.
Johnny just smiled and gave me a long questioning stare.
He never said another word until we were back at work as medical technicians that winter of 1944. But stories have a way of spreading and growing in the retelling.
A few weeks later, after dancing with the director of nurses at a party at the base hospital – an ancient lady of at least 35 - one of my favorite doctors, Ben Lasher, took me aside and gave me some friendly advice: “Look, kid, I know you like older women, but I think it would be a lot healthier for you to date girls your own age.”
I stood there with my mouth open as the stern-faced doctor strode toward the door. But as he walked by my friend Johnny, he nodded and Johnny grinned, and I knew the joke was on me.
My dear mother had spilled the beans to Johnny quite innocently when he asked where I’d been the previous evening. “Wasn’t he a dear to visit with Tess and Agnes?” Johnny agreed I surely was, never mentioning the grave burden I had bestowed on him at Oliver’s Lounge.
Years later I ran into Johnny at the Hotel Hamilton bar in Utica, N.Y. “Yeah, I spread the myth of your affection for older women, and actually the director of nurses was intrigued. But doc Lasher who dropped your jaw was in on the joke, as you discovered.”
We tapped glasses and had a good laugh. Old friends recalling a funny story with a moral: even white lies have consequences.
***
Carlton E. Spitzer
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